José pulled the handle and the window gave way inside.
‘What’s going on, Porringui?’ Ángel asked, sounding cartoonish.
‘Have you not seen the chaos outside?’
‘Well of course, Porringui.’
‘I peered outside and saw them, with very white eyes, all biting themselves, and neighbours as well,’ Porringui began to explain in a hoarse voice. ‘I locked myself into my house. All of our neighbours have gone mad!’
‘What does the civil guard have to say about this?’ Ángel asked. He was a man who was always in a good mood and spoke in such a way that his own people would understand; rubbish, idiots, simians.
Porringui began to laugh jokingly.
‘They say that it’s a virus,’ he replied back, gripping the bars of the window with his tiny hands.
‘Yes, I know, I have diarrhoea,’ Ángel continued jokingly. ‘I’ve been up all night stuck in the loo.’
José laughed forcibly. Normally, he was rather serious with a sombre air around him.
‘Then get yourself to the doctor already to check your arse,’ Porringui said, in a dry voice.
‘It’s being considered.’
‘Yesterday, I saw one of our neighbours walking around with his guts in his hands,’ Porringui explained, bringing his hands to his bulging beer belly.
‘And another with a leg over his head,’ Ángel responded back, pulling his hair back.
At this, Porringui began to laugh.
‘Idiot!’
With that, Porringui left, with the eldest son stammering.
‘Porringui is probably exaggerating.’
But it was not an exaggeration of events, and the Perdios family, nicknamed as such, had not seen anything in spite of having been in the streets the previous day. They had seen a lot of blood, but nothing like hanging entrails. Still, no, but it would happen quite soon.
LXXVI
Father Martín had arrived to the Virgen de la Piedad Mortuary, with Father Guillermo and Father Isidoro at his side. The three of them had wicked smirks on their faces, with yellowed eyes that showed bright yet harmful glances.
There were some crying near the door of the mortuary, with handkerchiefs wiping their wet eyes. Mucus and saliva was smeared on their faces. When the three priests had arrived, they seemed to feel a momentary relief, considering that the religious imagery was a way of consolation.
Though, none of them noticed the large gap in Father Martín’s chest.
When Father Martín ascended the three steps into the mortuary, the distressed relatives of the recently deceased stepped aside in a murmur. Although the sun was shining with all of its might, the atmosphere was still filled with sadness. Much sadness. Though, this sadness would quickly convert to fear.
‘First, the dead,’ Father Martín whispered, with a Bible in his hand full of dried blood. No one seemed to notice this, however. ‘First, the dead.’
The three of them entered the mortuary, their cassocks waving in the wind.
‘It’s about time, these priests work less and less every day,’ an old woman commented, sitting in one of the waiting rooms near the end of the mortuary, right next to the chapel which was now closed. He looked towards them in the square of his eye, and slightly frowned.
There was a fat man, leaning against the reception counter, and he looked to them as well, and remembered how much everything had changed with regards to funerals in Águilas in the last ten years. Earlier ceremonies were held in the village churches, with a great walk behind the hearse while mourners shuffled behind and cried. Now, the man thought to himself, they expose you behind a glass, you go down to the main hall, they perform the ceremony, and kick you off to the cemetery, where everyone awaits with band new cars. Bloody Hell, how lazy it has become.
A child, who was seated near the stairs leading up to the mortuary’s three halls, saw, with surprise, how Father Martín’s sandals were completely stained with blood. The child, who was playing with his plastic cars, opened his eyes, which now showed an expression of surprise, though said nothing.
One by one, they climbed the twenty steps to the first floor, with their stupid yet sinister smirks still drawn on their faces, under their whitish, penetrating gazes.
First to the front, and then to the left, the little one from below continued watching Father Martín’s bloodied sandals with uneasiness.
In front of them there was an open space, a very large space, with over two hundred seats, which was almost overflowing. Half of the attendants turned their heads, as if paranoid, then they saw the priests, with their arms raised and their cassocks black as night, brushing against the ground. They rose in a rhythmic murmur.
‘Blessed be you all,’ Father Martín announced, waving one hand in the air, with this pinkie and index finger outstretched, while the other hand was clenched in a fist. The murmurs soon rose above his voice. ‘Soon, I will bring you all life.’
They made a sharp twist to the right, toward the long corridor that led them to three rooms arranged side by side. In one of the rooms, a wake room, Father Martín turned as if he were being pushed by an invisible hand.
‘His left hand showed off his bloodied and filthy Bible, some of those present perceived this detail, and opened their eyes wide.
There were also seated people here, mostly family members of the deceased, sitting in the comfortable sofas and armchairs of the room, with a handkerchief in hand and eyes swollen from tears. Some of them raised their heads to look into the faces of the priests, and suddenly, the divined that something was not right.
Father Martín, with this bloody cassock and a gap in his heart, raised his right hand, showing off his hand with a golden ring that glimmered in the light of the mortuary. Father Martín would have rather that the ring be that of the Pope, otherwise knowns as the Piscatory Ring. It was only fit, as he was currently fishing for more followers.
‘Isn’t he the priest of the San José Parish Church?’ a grey-haired woman all clad in black murmured, ‘What could he be doing here?’
The woman who sat next to her also shook her head.
‘Yes, and that is Father Isidoro,’ the other women snarled.
Both of them, clad in the appearance of mourners, did not belong to any of the families of the deceased. They were two practising Catholic old spinster women who, day after day, went to the mortuary, and recognised all parishioners in the city of Águilas to the point that they knew what colour their toenails were.
Father Martín looked at them with eyes that flashed like torches and a sinister smirk on his face.
‘Ladies,’ he gestured towards them. ‘Soon, you two will also be alive.’
One of the old women shrugged at the uncertainty of these words.
Though, they still had not noticed the giant lacuna in his chest, though they had noticed the giant golden cross that was stained with dried blood. Their faced cringed at the sight of it, and were thrown into a state of confusion.
Murmurs and whispers ceased at one, when Father Martín approached the glass alarmingly, with the exposed face of the deceased peering back at him from the coffin, covered in a white shroud and surrounded by funerary wreaths.
‘Soon, you will return,’ Father Martín said, raising his sticky hands that rested to the glass.
Murmurs abounded the room, like the hum of heavy machinery. Father Martín turned to them, leaving the stained glass with two thin, opaque lines and a reddish substance.
‘Soon, this man will return to life,’ he announced in a loud voice, with bright, white eyes.
The deceased relatives let out a few shouts, and some got up from the mortuary’s sofas, with ire rising from within. Was he mad? What was wrong with him? How could he mock the dead in such a way?
‘Are you mad, Father?’ A broken yet angry voice sounded. ‘How dare you insult the dead in such a manner?’
‘In a way, you are all dead already dead,’ he said, pointing
to everyone seated in the wake, with a crooked and bare index finger.
Father Guillermo and Father Isidoro showed their white teeth from behind their sinister smiles.
‘But fear not, for you will soon live,’ Father Guillermo repeaeted, with Father Isidoro nodding.
‘You are bloody mad!’ The widow of the deceased shouted, who was completely pale and laying in his coffin under the mortuary shroud and a golden banner that read, “We love you, dad.”
‘Wait, and you shall see!’ Father Martín announced.
Out in the corridor, the murmur had now converted into a clamour of voices responding to the events that were currently unfolding. Other families from the adjoining rooms took notice of the clamouring going on in the other room.
Then the three priests left the room to begin.
LXXVII
The pensioners went outside to their respective terraces and looked towards the city that morning, where the carnival would be held in the evening, at half past eight, when the sun was already beginning to set behind the mountains.
From Geraneos, the city of Águilas was dirty.
‘Good morning,’ the Englishman in white shorts and no shirt said.
‘Indeed, good morning,’ the other pensioner replied.
Every morning, the both greeted each other and spoke extensively, and yet, they didn’t even know each other’s names, though it did not matter. They did know that their German neighbour was named Roland, though they also didn’t know the names of their French and Portuguese neighbours.
The two English pensioners, with red and wrinkled skin on their bony yet curved bodies, began to chatter once again, just like every morning. However, it had now been four days since the initial zombie infection, and they were still ignorant of the matter. Though, their ignorance didn’t make them any safer.
LXXVIII
The young gypsy man with the ponytail dropped his knife to the ground, whose metal shined in the sun. His complexion began to turn pale as he watched the blood flow into his hands. There was a sharp pain that had settled in his right ear, and then he saw the zombie gobble up his ear with a gurgle.
‘The ear!’ The father cried out, now sweating profusely as he retreated back a few metres from the white man who had bitten one of the young men.
‘Father,’ the young man said, without accentuating the final “r”, ‘This white bloke won’t die, what is going on here?’
The cane of the father rose above his shoulder as he took out his white handkerchief with the other hand.
‘This is the Devil’s work, son!’ He replied back in a broken voice. Behind him there was a murmur that soon turned to screams and questions. Several men came forward, approaching the father, with their large knives at the ready.
‘What, he doesn’t die?’ one of them said, holding what seemed to be a large butcher’s knife in his hand. ‘I’ll slice him from top to bottom if necessary!’
The drooling man now raised his arms and began to walk towards them against. As he began to approach, the man with the butcher’s knife sliced into his belly. The drooling man hardly had a belly, so the metal of the knife easily penetrated the belly, and then the man manoeuvred the knife from the belly, and pulling it up to the man’s chest.
Almost instantaneously, the drooling man’s guts poured out onto the pavement into the shining sun, smoking from steam, and falling inertly to the ground like a chain of sausages. As the fell to the ground, the guts make a muffling splat as blood flowed profusely from his stomach, forming a small puddle of blood on the pavement.
The father opened his eyes wider and one of the gypsy men gave a short, restrained laugh. The women who were keeping watch over the children held their hands over their eyes, practically singing insults and curses.
But the drooling man gave the gypsy a furious look and continued walking, dragging his entrails behind him, stepping on them at the same time. The sounds emanating from this through did not denote any pain, but rather of pleasure. He was not breathing either.
‘You’re supposed to be bloody dead!’ the gypsy with the butcher’s knife exclaimed; perhaps he had missed an important spot? ‘He does not die!’
Then the group all fell back, like frightened lambs in front of a huge wolf with open jaws.
As if that were not enough, now, the young gypsy man with the ponytail, who had been bitten in the ear, began to seize, as if he were being electrocuted by some unknown source. His eyes narrowed and turned white. Drool began to form from the corner of his mouth, and he stopped shouting and talking. All he could do now was emit guttural grunts, as if he were possessed by the Devil now, as his father had said prior.
‘Son! What has happened to you!’
His thick hands rose in the air and sweat ran like rivers of ink from his forehead and face. His belt buckle once again shined in the sun’s rays, as did his golden watch around his wrist.
His won now expressed a very pale colour in his face, with a tenebrous and sinister look now forming. It was as if he had suddenly lost all sensation in his limbs, and began to emit strange, guttural grunts, while his arms were flat to the sides of his hips.
‘Dad, what has happened to brother?!’ One of the father’s other sons commented, with fear reflected on his sweaty face. He still had his knife in his hand, but now he was going from hand to hand, as if fiddling with it. His body was hunched and thin, moving briskly in front of these two apparent demons.
‘It’s the work of the Devil! The Devil has taken control of them!’ The father shrieked, his voice sounding a bit more feminine in its sharpness.
More gypsy men began to approach, leaving the formed line, and the women, who were mostly pregnant, stepped aside, with only the most daring of the women shouting towards the two zombies.
‘Is that not Santiago, Brígida?’ One woman asked another, pointing to one of the zombies.
‘Yes, it is Santiago Contreras, Juan’s son.’
And the light of the sun was witness to what would happen next, with two sparrows speeding through the sky at great speed.
LXXIX
The Ford Fiesta stopped next to the CEPSA petrol station, which was located on the other side of the street from the One Hundred and Fifty Homes building. The driver opened the car, turning off the engine.
In front of him was a large motorcycle that skidded to a halt near the dispenser, with its loud engine continuing to roar, the seat vibrating under his bollocks. After muting the engine, another car approached. It was a Peugeot, and it took position behind them.
However, things were not right in this petrol station. The driver noticed that one of the windows in the station attendant box was shattered like a cobweb, and from what could be seen from the inside, was pure chaos. Even so, the motorcycle driver got off of his motorcycle and kicking the kickstand.
The driver of the Ford Fiesta ran into a small woman with opaque white eyes and a chin full of blood, showing her teeth, while her mouth was dripping drool. The man pushed himself away quickly, given his fight or flight response. The woman extended her arms and, at the end of her fingertips, were her fingernails that appeared to have something spoil dug into them. One of these fingernails reached the man’s forearm and a tiny drop of blood came out.
The motorcycle driver headed towards the station attendant box, with his head cocked and his body hunched in order to peer better into the broken glass. The man had not noticed the drooling woman, nor the two erratic men at the corner of Hostal La Huerta that continued towards Carrefour, with the CEPSA petro station meeting the two.
The man driving the Peugeot silenced his motor and, for morbid curiously, got out of his seat. The sun fell heavy on his bald head. He was wearing a black t-shirt with blue shorts and flip-flops. His sunglasses, as dark and immense as a moonless and overcast night, protected his little eyes from the sun.
With a grim hand, he reached for the handle to the Super 95 unleaded petrol dispenser and stretched the hose to the ba
ck of the car where the fuel tank opened. His heavy and slow movement completely ignored what was currently happening in that petrol station. With a chubby finger, he pressed the handle of the petro pump and heard a gurgle that began to ring through the hose. The air was filled with a strong smell of petrol that evaporated almost instantly in the mid-August sun.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his hand. His huge head turned slowly and he saw a child with his teeth digging into the palm of his hand, which held the petrol hose. The child couldn’t have been more than eight years old, yet his gaze was whitish and his hair was ruined. There were traces of blood on the tip of his nose and forehead. He emitted an inhuman growl.
The man withdrew his hand and left the petrol nozzle connected to the fuel tank. The pump stopped working. The man, with a sense of dissonance, looked towards the wound in his hand and saw the small crevices where the child left his teeth marks.
‘What is the meaning of this?!’ He asked, but the child only grunted and drooled. The fat man then felt a shiver of fear run up his spine. He looked around and saw more men and women shambling restlessly, while others dragged their feet. Confusion and fear began to seize him, until his eyes squinted and turned whitish. He was suddenly attracted to the smell of blood.
The cyclist headed towards the station attendant box, slowly removing his helmet from his head. He has a thin beard and long hair, and his eyes were greyish. The automatic door opened with a dull hiss.
He entered.
The man in the Ford Fiesta began to feel his body heat rising, and he began to sweat intensely, being able to fill a pail with his sweat. His vision started to blur, and he could feel something inside of him. He began to feel hungry, and his eyes began to spin in their sockets. He arched his back and his nails began to scratch at his veins. Suddenly, he felt stiff, and attracted to blood. He began to drag his feet like a marionette with broken strings.
Inside the station attendant box, the station workers were all crouched behind the counter, armed with a simple broom, while more drooling people fought from the front of the counter. They had deep stares and were difficult to describe, though they were terrifying. One of them had large wounds at its side, under a torn, green shirt.
Infected, Zombi The City of the Zol Page 13